Stay With Me
by Sherlockian Dreams
Summary: At first a genuine smile, one that only John could bring, lit my face, and the thought of being in the warm, with John, had never been so welcoming. This was the day, that I had finally worked up the courage to tell him. I wanted to tell him how I felt, though it was strange and confusing and really, I didn't know how to feel. Whatever those feelings were, they seemed real...
1. Chapter 1

Stay With Me

_A/n: written for challenge 3 of letswritesherlock, and based on the song Stay by Happiness Hurts. Listen to it, it's a beautiful song, and it gave me inspiration to write this fanfic. At the moment, it's only one chapter, but if you guys like it, I would be very happy to continue it. Maybe even make it a Johnlock fic?  
Anyways, I hope you enjoy it xxx_

**Disclaimer: I do not own these amazing characters. They belong to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss, and the idea, to Sir Arthur Conon Doyle.**

Glancing up at the large, dark framed window, I realised with a terrible pang that I wasn't going home today.

I stood silently there on the pavement outside, feeling the bitter wind harsh on my face, ruffling my hair, and the cold air slowly seep through the layers of my clothes, to deep into my rigid muscles. I had my head craned slightly, posture such that braced me against the cold, watching the scene unfold before my eyes.

At first, I could see nothing wrong. At first it was insanely comforting, seeing the welcoming redish- gold glow lighting up the window like a beacon. Just through the condensing glass, there was the familiar outline of my chair; the music stand, quivering slightly on its delicate leg as the weight of the occupant shifted around restlessly.  
And then the glow was blocked out slightly, and there was John. John at the window with his familiar figure. The lean torso and short arms. His colours, as warm and as welcoming as the light, brighten up my eyes. The sandy colour of his short, military cut hair, the slight flush of delicate pink against his slightly tan cheeks, the cable knit jumper, the colour of iron, that somehow always looked good on him. I knew that if I was closer to him, if I walked that little distance and came close, I would see the colour of his eyes. So dark blue, like the depth of the sea. Deep and understanding, with a twinkle that never went out.

I loved those eyes. There were emotions and thoughts and feelings raging through those eyes.  
At first a genuine smile, one that only John could bring, lit my face, and the thought of being in the warm, with John, had never been so welcoming. This was the day, that I had finally worked up the courage to tell him. I wanted to tell him how I felt, though it was strange and confusing and really, I didn't know how to feel. Whatever those feelings were, they seemed real. Those small moments, when his navy eyes pierced mine, and held them there, and it was almost tangible. My heart would kick up a notch, and I found it so difficult to breathe. It was always me who looked away, unable to continue watching his expressive face.

Today, I had been going to tell him. I started my way up the path.

But a flicker of movement caught my eye, and I paused again.

The shadows had changed; more light had been blocked out. Johns figure had moved.  
A next to him, I saw another figure. Unfamiliar. Female.

She was pretty, I suppose. Long blond hair drawn into a pony tail, pink cheeks, a long scarlet dress, to her knees. And she and John were standing together.

I was suddenly glad that I was outside in the frigid air, and the pouring rain, so that I couldn't see the look of adoration on John's as she leaned in close. So I didn't hear their rapid breathing as their fingers touched. So I didn't have to feel so much the intense, burning pain that was currently eating me away and hurting my chest. The cold was better than the internal pain.

But I could see the smile on John's face. That beautiful smile that I so rarely saw lighting him up so effortlessly right there. For a moment, he is like an angel in my eyes, trapped in a halo of golden light with that huge, beautiful smile dancing on his face.

The smile is not aimed at me. It's aimed at the blonde woman with the scarlet dress. She is the winner of that smile. I hoped and prayed that she cherished this moment as I would do, had John ever looked at me like that. I hoped that she knew just how lucky she was to have that smiling, beautiful man look at her with adoration in those deep blue eyes, and place a soft, capable hand on hers. She was so lucky, and I hoped she knew.

I closed my eyes to block out the sight of them together. It hurt, and the darkness healed. Darkness showed me ignorance. I could pretend it wasn't real. I could pretend that I was somewhere else entirely. I did not need to picture John's amazing smile, or his blue eyes and cable knit jumper. My John didn't need me. Not anymore. Not when he was with the pretty woman, who probably had no idea how lucky she was.

Did he think about me? As he leaned in close and teased her lips with his own?

Stupid idea, why would he? I had never given him any reason to do so. I'd made it clear months ago how I wasn't interested, but that was when I'd first met him. John had always been oblivious to such obvious things. And if he were to glance out of the window now, he wouldn't understand why I stood, muscles aching and trembling with the cold, with my eyes tightly shut against the golden glow. He would feel sad probably, that I was there about to ruin his date, and the beautiful smile would disappear in a flash.

I never got to see that smile. Not really. Yet that woman got it so very easily.

My heart sank another few metres, and I felt utterly miserable, and completely out of control of my emotions. I couldn't let them run rampant like this. Especially not in front of John.

I turned around, opened my eyes again to the dark street opposite. The windows of the opposite house were dark and cold, just how I felt inside. Glancing at the reflective glass, I glimpse my own reflection. Tall and abnormally skinny, pale skin, dark unruly hair, not a scrap of colour, high cheekbones and a long coat swamping my body. Nothing like the woman up in my flat. Not that I had ever been competition. Not that I'd ever really shown him how I felt before.

I headed slowly back down the street, wondering where I could stay. Where I would be out of the cold.

Tonight was going to be a long night without John.

**(several hours later) **

Sunlight. Burning my face. I was hot, too hot. Suffocating sheets, tucked tightly around my body. I felt like I was restrained.

There is a soft lull of voices in the background and I'm suddenly incredibly disorientated. What happened last night? Where did I go? Where was I now?  
I turn to try and make myself more comfortable, and to assess the firmness of the bed I was in (I had no recollection of getting to a bed at all). It was firm and shapeless. Not my own bed obviously. Take a deep breath. Strong smell of disinfectant and medicine.

Conclusion: hospital.  
I was in hospital?

I become aware that the soft voices have ceased, and the silence is heavy.  
Then:  
"Sherlock?"

John. It is John's voice that I head in my ears. That soft, gentle tone that I know so well. I know every note he can make, every noise and breath and speech pattern. The sound of it fills me with a completely imagined warmth, that somehow feels nice. So much better than the physical sunlight on my face. I want to smile and let my happiness bleed, so that people could see, so that John would see. But I can't. So I don't.

Instead, I open my eyes.

At first everything is fuzzy, and I squint violently, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the brightness. Sterile white hospital beds, machines and square windows. The bed next to me is clean and empty. There is a doctor close by.

"Sherlock?" John's beautiful voice again, washing more warmth through me. Like an antidote. My personal antidote to pain and hurt and confusion. I register how urgent he is now. He wants me to respond. I slowly turn my head, and my searching eyes finally, finally, finds his face.

Dark blue eyes, deep and meaningful and full to burst with emotion. They glistened, I gazed with awe, and tried to describe the complexity of the colour in my mind. Nothing came to mind except how much my heart had started racing. Surely he could hear it pounding against my ribs as he was so close?

"Oh Christ Sherlock," his face, so pale and tight, crumbles instantly as he breathes a sigh of relief. The lines smooth out and his joy that I was okay fills his eyes to the brim. I find it hard to breathe, and hate myself for it.

"Are you okay? Sherlock? Speak to me," he says it urgently again, holding my gaze sharply. I swallow.

"John," I say. John. The most important word in the universe to me. I love the taste of the word on my lips, the way my mouth forms the word, the way he responds when I say it.

"I'm here, Sherlock, I'm here, I'm here," warm soft fingers reach for my hand, and my muscles tense involuntarily. Touch. Such a powerful sense. I can feel his smooth skin, and the calloused fingers, so gentle, so careful. This touch seems to burn. I don't want him to let go, but I don't say anything. I stay limp and let him touch, "I'm here," he whispers again.

I wonder how I got in this situation. What happened?

"What happened?" I echoed my thoughts carefully.

"You didn't come home last night, you nutter, they found you collapsed on the street corner," for a moment anger and regret burns in his oh so expressive face, "why didn't you come home?"

How could I tell John the real reason? The pretty blonde woman, the winner of John's smile, John's warm, so so soft touch, John's lips...

I blinked.

"I was busy," I tell him, my voice sounding indignant and sharp. Busy getting painfully hit by powerful emotions and a freezing wind.

"I don't care Sherlock, when it's cold like that, you come home, or I will drag your skinny ass home anyway," the anger subsided for moment, and his features softened, "you could have died Sherlock... It was so cold last night..." He closes his eyes at the thought, as if it gave him pain to think about my death. But surely the pretty woman should cause this reaction, not me. Not his irritating, proud, arrogant flat mate who plays violin at three in the morning.

John always mentioned that, but he never mentioned the music I played.  
The music I played at three in the morning was my own composition, and it was for him. It always had been for him. Like a silent, unknown gift that is unrecognised. Despite this, I had grown fond of the piece, almost as though a part of John lived in the music I had created for him. The melody reminded me of John's complexity. The warmth and kindness and solid earthlyness, that was John. The piece was the only time I ever poured my heart out. Which was why three in the morning was the ideal time to play.

"But I'm not dead," I said finally. It was obvious wasn't it? What was the point in thinking about something that could have (but didn't) happen?

"Why didn't you just come home damn it, " John looks angry again; his fingers squeeze my hand, and suddenly I find it hard to breathe.

I look away, to the window. It hasn't been cleaned for three- no, four, days, and the cleaner was a short woman of about thirty. Strange, I was completely doing this on auto pilot.

"You were busy too," I said finally, so quietly, I wasn't sure if John had heard.

The sudden flicker of astonishment in his wide eyes confirmed it, and I wondered why I had said that. Stupid. Unnecessary. I'd already given him an answer.

"Since when did you start caring about how busy I am?" He said quietly, eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

I sigh. I don't want to be part of this conversation. I want to close my eyes and settle into the soft bed sheets and pretend that I needed sleep. That way John would leave, and probably find his lady friend. Again. And smile at her like that. Again.

It was strange to think about how John was so, completely blinkered when it came to me. How could he not know how much I cared when he was busy? How much I cared, in general?

How could he not know just how deeply in love with him I was?

It had, admittedly, taken me a long time to come to terms with this idea, but I knew the signs. I wondered if I was so used to putting on a persona for the outside world, that I was subconsciously hiding these feelings, even from John, the one person who could read me, to an extent, and know what I was feeling, most of the time.

And yet, even now, I was far too afraid to drop the act. I remembered vaguely that I had decided to tell him last night, before the female got involved. Now it was impossible.

It took a moment for John to realise that I wasn't going to answer, so instead of pressing the matter, he squeezed my hand again, more tightly than before, sending jolts of warming electricity through my body. I was suddenly incredibly thankful that I wasn't hooked up to an ECG. A rapid increase in heart rate would have looked suspicious.

"You were saying things," John said finally, after what seemed like an age of silence, "in your sleep, you were saying things,"

I glanced up at him. His expressive face was soft, yet careful. He was unsure, bewildered. My heart plummeted. What had I said?

Out loud, I said nothing, just watched his face, scanned his beautiful navy eyes, waited for him to enlarge, or perhaps, not say anything at all.  
As it happens, John looked down, to the white bed sheets with their tightly tucked in corners. He took a deep breath.

"Listen Sherlock," he began, fiddling with his hands, "I need-," he sighed impatiently, "I want to-,"

Broken sentences, broken words- John was nervous.

"I need to ask you something," he said finally.

Ask me something? Ask me what? Somehow, I didn't want to know.

"John, whatever I said in my sleep, I was just sleeping," I said blandly, keeping my face blank and expressionless.

John blinked quickly, "I know that,"

"I'm sure you're girlfriend wants to see you," I said, over the top of him, "don't bother with me,"

"Sherlock!" He said, looking highly flustered, and irritated at my butting in.

"You want to see her yes?" I gabble on, suddenly fuelled by John's anger, "I can see by your nervous fingers and the impatient tapping of your right foot. That and you keep glancing at your watch. You're due to meet her-,"

"You said you loved me," he blurted loudly, interrupting my monologue. Shock white washes my mind completely blank, and I can't do anything but stare. He is staring right back, a light dusting of pink flowering in his cheeks.

"You said you loved me in your sleep," he said, so softly now, I could hardly hear him.

Silence falls, and I don't know what to say to him. How could I say anything when my sub consciousness had completely betrayed me? John knew now. John knew everything, and he looked so bewildered and, slightly flattered, and I felt like my entire world was collapsing. This wasn't supposed to happen. He wasn't supposed to know.  
"Is that true Sherlock?" He asked. His voice is trembling slightly now. I can only guess that he is frightened. He doesn't want his arrogant flat mate to be in love with him. It would cause problems. John would leave.

John would leave me.

I suddenly felt as though I had been doused in ice. John couldn't leave. He couldn't.

"I was just sleeping John," I said, making sure my face was unreadable, "that's all,"

John leant in close, sending my heart thrilling inside of me. I found it difficult to breathe.  
Curse this man. Curse him for making me feel things.

"Tell me the truth, please," he sighed, looking nervous, frightened, yet so desperate to know, to understand. I'd told him my deepest secret whilst I was sleeping and I had no idea how to combat it. Where feelings were concerned, I wasn't sure whether my acting was good enough. The nerves inside my stomach kept on building and building and I felt sick.

"You wouldn't have said something if you didn't think it, it doesn't happen," John said, breathing quick. Increased nervousness, "so please Sherlock," he took a deep breath, "do you love me?"

_Yes John, yes. I love you. I love your smile and your face and your eyes, I love your laugh and your breathing and your voice. I love the way you make tea in the mornings and the way you always look out for me, even when I don't ask you to. I love everything about you John Watson. Even your name and the way you walk and how you put up with me every day. I love you so much and I just can't. Say. Anything.  
Because you can never love me back._

"Really John," I try to sound exasperated, my face blank. I can feel my emotion bubbling through, my desire to touch John's face so so strong. I can't say no to him. The lie would be too much. So hard to say. I can't say no when I really, truly am so very very much. Not that I ever thought I would ever be in this position. And now I'm in it, I can't imagine my life before him. Before John, I had no where to run to. Where can I run when there's nothing to run for? Nothing to hold on to? John gave me that meaning. John gave me that life. I could never find the words to say.

"Sherlock," John groaned.

I close my eyes and pretend that I don't care. That John is just another ordinary human being. The painful thing is that he's not.

I feel the warmth of his fingers withdraw from my own cold hand, and my eyes open wide, John is moving away, shoulders slumped: defeated.

"No," I whisper, so softly, I'm not sure that he heard. There's the patter of the beginnings of rainfall on the large windows, the sound filling the silence. Drop, drop, drop. The thrumming steadily gets louder and more violent as the rain gets heavier.

And yet, by some miracle, John hears me, and he turns. There's an expression on his face, and I can't read it (emotions- not really my forte) but immediately, I'm nervous again. I can't exactly remember why I had cried out like that.

"What is it?" John is worried again. Perhaps he thinks I'm in pain (I'm not- not in that way anyway). But I can't let him walk away, as much as my throat seems to swell up and my heart starts to beat so very violently, I can't let him walk away.

"Stay," I mumble, eyes trailing his face. There. That word seemed to sum up everything that I felt. It was as if the word was a conductor for my emotions, showing them through with such perfection. That was what I wanted. I wanted him to stay. Stay with me.  
There was confusion set into those beautiful blue eyes, and yet he smiled lightly too. For a moment, I felt a little bit of hope burning inside me.

Stay John. Please stay with me.

"Goodbye Sherlock," he said quietly, "I will be back soon,"

He turned his back on me and left the room, and I felt as though my entire world was shutting down as I watched his retreating back. There was an emptiness inside me that was large and gaping- a black hole where my heart should have been. I watched him walk away, and I was alone again. Alone, listening to the sounds of the pouring rain outside.

_A/n: let me know what you think? A review or two would really make my day.  
Also: dilemma- to continue or not to continue? Let me know xxx._


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Burning

_A/n: thank you guys so, so much for your amazing responses to this story. I didn't expect such beautiful comments. Thank you.  
So here it is, the next chapter. I really, truly hope that I don't let you down, I've worked pretty hard to try and get the wording right.  
I hope you enjoy it xxx_

The rain continued to batter the washed out streets when I was finally released from the chemical clutches of the hospital staff. I had an awful suspicion that Mycroft had something to do with my being discharged early. I hated that feeling. That I was in debt (once again) to my seven year senior, 'minor' government official brother, meaning that I would undoubtably be called on sooner or later to deal with a tedious case that would lead me away from home. I didn't want to dwell on that matter very much.

I pulled on my coat and scarf, which had sort of became a protection for me. A mask of my emotions, ready to show how much of a sociopath I was. It hid all the other feelings, told the world that I didn't care. So effective, as it was, that even John believed that I felt nothing for him. How could he think that? How strangely, uncharacteristically blind of him.

Baker Street this morning was dark and grey and empty. It missed the absence of John's warmth- the smile brighter than any light- the tone of his voice, smoothed into the walls.  
I found my place on the sofa and lay with my eyes closed. For once I was grateful for the silence. There were things I needed to think about in my mind.

I let myself truly realise what had been almost a blur back in the hospital bed.  
What had happened with John.

Give or take anything I had said in that time, my complete refusal to tell him the truth, even though the word was stuck on my tongue like a lingering taste, just waiting to be choked out of my tightly sealed lips, the automatic 'self defence', even my last words to John, the outcome was the same in each case.

Nothing would ever happen.

John was in a relationship already. He'd taken to heart so much of what I'd said at the start of our own companionship, and then that was it. Every other sign. Every racing heart beat, every glance away had been so perfectly ignored, perhaps accidentally. Perhaps that was part of the reason why I hated the situation so very much.

Of course, I could still cast my mind back to the very start of that frigid night in the rain. There had been a quiet courage there, urging me to finally tell the truth, and let John know everything. I remembered, past that night, how desperately I'd looked for signs from John. Tiny snippets into his emotional world that would tell me, somehow, that I wasn't the only one feeling like this. As I'd thought before, it seemed so real.

Perhaps I'd disillusioned myself. So much, in fact, that I'd completely missed the fact that John was dating somebody. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

The soft vibrations of my silent phone make my trouser pocket buzz. Numbly, I pulled I out, grudgingly opening my eyes to see the caller.

John.

It was funny how much of an impact reading that name had on me. Before, I had been able to just look at it, perhaps study the letters, perhaps deduce why he had been called such a name, maybe even smile a little. Now, however, the name sent jolts straight through me, like electricity, and my heart started racing just a little faster.

John was calling. And that's all that mattered. Perhaps he hadn't forgotten me so completely after all. Perhaps...

I answered the call.

"Sherlock? Where are you?" John's urgent voice was sharp and tight; I closed my eyes once again, listening to the sound of his voice resonating in my ear. There were the soft and the rough tones, the emotions slipping through, the lullaby of his speech pattern. Beautiful.

"I'm at home," I answered, sounding impressively bored. Sometimes I wondered how I had got so good at hiding my feelings.

"Home? What do you mean home?" John was breathless- he was walking. Fast. I tried incredibly hard not to think about how hearing him so breathless made me feel. With little result.

"I mean I got discharged early, they said I was free to go," I replied quietly.  
I heard John sigh. He seemed to be relieved.

"Okay, okay," he said, his relief, already evident in his sigh, becoming even more apparent in his words, "okay thats good,"

He paused, and suddenly I could feel the awkwardness there, it was dense, tangible through the phone line. I remembered how we had ended yesterday.

_Stay._

_Goodbye Sherlock_.

For a moment I thought hard about what that could mean. Did he mean goodbye for now? That he was just popping out (to see the female in the red dress)? Or that it was a mark of finality, that he had to get away from me, because he could sense something in my disdainful words (really John) that wasn't quite true.

Yet surely, surely, John phoning like this meant that his small goodbye was just the same as when he usually said goodbye. Like when he went to the shops to get milk or headed out to work.

"Are you okay Sherlock?" Tentative now, the breathlessness had stopped. John had stopped walking.

"What? Yes, of course," mildly surprised, and anxious to what those words really meant- or perhaps I was over thinking everything, the work of a tired mind. I was, in fact, exhausted and weak. Probably from standing out in the rain the other night.

"Are you sure?" More hesitation. I wondered what he was referring to here. John wasn't a complete idiot; up until last night I had thought that perhaps he had got a small glimpse behind my carefully displayed mask. I had thought, foolishly, that he could see my emotions (not as non existent as people may believe them to be) and read my helpless desperation for him plain and clear and bright.

"Yes," even now, my voice sounds strained. Can't he hear it? Hollow and meaningless words._ I'm not okay John, I will never be okay again. That is what you've done to me. That is what emotions do to me. I can't be okay as long as I love you._

"Okay," a pause again, and I wait, listening to the buzz down the phone line, "listen I need to go,"

Go? Go where? Back to his girlfriend probably.  
I took a deep breath.

"Fine," I say, just before he hangs up. I drop my phone back to my side, and stare absently at the ceiling. Hollow thoughts, hollow feelings. I wanted to understand why the presence of a female made everything seem different. Why it made me feel more lonely than ever. Probably the most lonely since John had walked through those door in St Bart's for the first time.

I close my eyes softly, and focus on blocking my unwelcome thoughts, wishing, not the the first time, that I had a case to distract me. I needed distractions.

...

Dreaming had always been very vivid for me. That was something that had never changed, despite so many things in my life changing around me.  
Two days after being dispatched from the hospital, I had my first real sleep in weeks, and therefore, my first real dream.

I was there, standing on the empty street, watching the female in the red dress kiss John softly. The pain in my chest was as real as if I'd just been stabbed there, and my dream self turned away much more quickly than I had actually done.  
My dream had then taken a different turn to the bitter pain and heart-clenching cold I had experienced in that moment. Where the ice inside me had been colder than the rain and howling wind battering my skin. In my dream, the door to the flat had opened, and John had ran out in the rain, towards me.  
In my dream, seeing John had filled me with unexplainable warmth and longing, something that I had never experienced before. Standing, watching him run, his expressive face open, eyes the colour of the ocean, waiting for him to reach me.  
Before he did, however, I had woken up.

Total disorientation at first; I wonder why I'm so disconcerted. It took a lot for me to be woken from such deep dreams as those I sometimes experienced, and had experienced tonight. The object of such dream, however, was not something I permitted myself to think (or feel) about. My wary, sleep crusted eyes open with stubbornness, and the dark ceiling stares blankly at me. A wave of sleepy confusion washes through me. I don't understand why I'm awake; my mind too tired to figure it out.

It takes me a lot longer than it should have to realise that there was someone in the room with me- air patterns seemed disturbed, I could hear the gentle breathing of someone. Someone close to me.

Someone watching me.

John. My John.

Immediately, my heart seems to leap, and the shadows on the ceiling don't seem so dark anymore. I feel as though knowing that John's presence was in the room made my whole world seem more bright and warm. Something worth living for, even if all my efforts fall on deaf ears- blind eyes. Something to hold on to, even if I won't be caught when I'm falling.

It strangely feels like falling. This was a concept that I had never, really, thought about before. The idea that you were falling in love. The slow, willing decent into a strange world of emotions. Jealousy, hurt, pain, loss, and then love, longing, hope, happiness, joy. So many. Too many. The way you fall also gives another impression. As a certain criminal once told me. Falling is like flying- only with a more permanent destination.

No truer words had ever been spoken. I had never been so happy to fall in all my life.

I take a deep breath. I remind myself that John is watching me.

I turn my head slowly.

John seems startled when he finds my eyes directed towards him. His face seems to flicker through so many different, utterly complex emotions. Emotions I don't think I could ever truly understand, or be capable of. He lifts his head, eyes find mine. There's something in his gaze that I haven't seen before. I don't understand what it is.

"You're awake," simple words, unnecessary words, but hearing his voice is all that matters. The un paralleled melody, like my own personal music. I have to hide the smile lingering on the edges of my lips.

"Yes," I say, instead. I don't really want to remind him of the night in the hospital, or ask him where he had been in the last two days. Because, though I would never admit it, two days without seeing his beautiful face was like trying to live without water.

There was a part of me, a part that I tried really hard to delete- ignore, that wished John had come back sooner. This part was much larger than I wanted to admit, even to myself; despite my realisation that what I was feeling was something stronger than the friendship I still found it difficult to understand why so much of me ached for him. Just seeing his eyes, his face, hearing his familiar voice, knowing he was close to my side, gave me a strange, yet comforting feeling that I found hard to ignore. It made me feel human, and that was something I'd told myself never to be. Human meant hurt and pain and broken promises. Hurt meant that my cloak of defence was weakened and I found it difficult to concentrate. Hurt meant that I had this awful black hole of pain that seemed to eat away at me. The knowing that John would never...Could ever...

Remarkable how much he affected me. I wondered whether I should do a full diagnosis on myself. Sherlock Holmes, the man who never felt, had fallen in love.

Unexpected, strange, and frightening so it was.

"Are you okay?" John appeared to be on default, there seemed to be words stuck in his throat. He continued to swallow compulsively.

"Yes, fine," I say quietly.

It's only then that I realise I am in my room, in my bed.

And John is also in my room.

John never came into my room unless it was something important. I sit up a little, scrutinise his anxious looking face. I'm still tired, but my tiredness can wait for a little while.

"Are _you_ okay?" I echo.

He blinked.

"I'm fine," he replied flatly; for a moment, looking a little lost and confused.

Then;  
"I...umm," he cleared his throat, "I had a fight... With Alice,"

Alice? Alice? I'm confused for a moment.

Oh. Oh! Alice is the female in the red dress. The winner of John's star- bright smile. Alice, who was causing John to feel angry, and wary right now. A burning sensation sparked like fire inside my chest; a feeling like nothing I'd ever felt before was suddenly setting my veins on fire. I really disliked this Alice person, for more than one reason.

"Oh," I say out loud. It's all I can think of to say.

"She...she just doesn't understand..." John trailed off, fingers clenched in his lap. I glance at him for a moment, and then lie down again, looking up at the ceiling instead. I don't want to talk about Alice. It's not important or interesting to me at all, and reminds me of the hole in my chest. The hole that had been there since John had left me in the hospital ( goodbye Sherlock ).

"Sherlock?" John is waiting for my response. Response to what? His broken sentence didn't require an answer. What John did with Alice had nothing to do with me. All the same, I look back to him, sit up again (more fully this time). His eyes are a little sad. The fight with Alice had shaken him.

"What?" I ask, albeit a little sharper than was necessary.

John just stares at me, lips parted slightly. Then, without a word, he moves closer to me, and wraps his arms around me. He hugs me.

I freeze instantly. Oh god, oh god, oh god. His arms are strong and warm and soft. His face is buried into the crook of my neck; his soft eyelashes brush my skin, slightly. A beautiful warmth washes through me. Like sunlight. My John, my personal sunlight. The feeling of his arms holding me so tightly, bringing my body close to his. Oh god, I can feel the heat from his chest, feel it rise and fall with steady breaths. His eyelashes flicker again, and the feeling sends a shiver right through me. Oh god. A burning sensation, quite different from the one I felt earlier, washes through me. I am overcome with a powerful urge to bring him closer. To feel his skin underneath my hands. To pull him so close that we are almost one. His touch, his warm, gentle touch, sends my heart racing like a train. I can hardly breath properly. I can't though. I keep my own arms loose around his back, close my eyes, and imagine it is something more. The something that I and always wanted. Right here, as he hugs me so tightly, so beautifully. I can't form the right words in my head.

And then comes the pain. The agony. The knowing that I can never see anything more into this than what it was. It was the need for comfort. John needed comfort. Because of his girlfriend. Because of Alice. He and Alice probably hugged so much more tightly than this. John probably had a racing heart, and a smile on his face, feeling her arms around him.

I could never compete like that.

_Why was John doing this to me?_

I push down the pain I was feeling, and let him go. He pulls away slowly, studies my face. I wonder whether he can see the poorly disguised pain in my eyes.  
I wonder whether he had heard my racing heart when he had been so close.

"Thank you," John says softly, before standing up slowly, and leaving the room, fists clenched at his side. He always did that when he was stressed, or anxious.

I stare at him. I don't call him back this time, and tell him to stay. The whole thing felt like a horrible déjà vu to that time in the hospital, and I didn't want to make it more so.

I lie back down, and stare into the darkness. I can still feel the echo of his arms around me, the feeling of his eyelashes fluttering against the skin on my neck. The echoes leave me trembling, wishing that I could have more.

_A/n: a review or two would be lovely, let me know what you think xxx_


	3. Chapter 3

_A/n: sorry about the long wait. I've kinda had my fair share of stress in the last few weeks. I hope you enjoy the latest entailment! Thanks again for your encouragement. Xxx_

Should I just tell him? Should I just swallow my fear, and my pain, and my confusion, and tell John everything? I had been planning to do so. I remembered. I remembered how I had been so truly happy, with the knowing that I was finally going to tell him the truth. Finally get to know how he felt about me. Finally (maybe) get to stroke his expressive face, and feel the soft strands of his military cut hair.

I had again, got to the point where living with the feeling so burning and painful in my chest was too much to bare without expressing it. There were regrets that I hadn't said it before. I had been given the chance. John had leant close, so close to me, and asked me if I loved him. Though the latter wasn't really an option anymore, keeping it closed up was more painful than I could expect.

I hadn't answered.

John sits across from me, in his armchair by the fire. He's reading the newspaper that he's already read more than three times before, and I realise that it is an effort to distract himself. But from what? I breathe evenly, and glance across to him.

Immediately, just seeing his face causes my throat to close up. I try to find the words. To tell him in the way that I had planned that night.

It was hard. Very hard. For the first time in my life, I had neither the courage, or the words, to bring up the situation. John seemed so peaceful sitting there. So at ease. The worry lines that usually decorated his face seemed more smoothed out. There was a gentle softness in those eyes as he scanned the inky pages of the newspaper.

I couldn't say anything. I couldn't. As much as I tried. Simply because one question, one in particular, kept swimming around my mind. Like an eternal kaleidoscope.

What would happen next?

Emotions were never really my area, and this was worse. Much worse. I had spent weeks and weeks trying to figure out how exactly I would approach the subject with John. But now, circumstances had changed, and yet I still needed to tell him.

The memory of his hug. Lingering against my skin. That smell. His smell. So close. His soft eyelashes fluttering lightly against my neck. There was conflict. So much conflict in my mind. Too much emotion to make sense of in my usual logical way. There was an ache. Lodged still in my chest. A bottomless hole that seemed to eat away at me. The terrible, never ending longing for his touch. Wishing he would hug me again. The bitter sweet pain of knowing, even through the warmth of the hug, that I still wasn't good enough. Never had been, never will. I was never anybody's first choice. The reason why I hated emotions.

Right there, in that quiet moment, looking at John from across the room. Knowing that my watching was going as unnoticed as my feelings, hurt. But I guess I needed to try to get used to it.

It was during this week, when something seemed to change behind John's expressive eyes. As much as I tried, I couldn't quite put my finger on what it was. He seemed more nervous and confused. As if he could sense something that I couldn't (which was ridiculous because I noticed everything). With myself being wrapped up in a haze of pain and longing, I found it hard to find time to concentrate on much apart from my flatmate, and it became, as the week progressed, more and more obvious that something was worrying him.

It was Friday, and I stood quietly by the window, my fingers caressing the strings of my violin. They were rough yet smooth at the same time: paradox.

I plucked, rearranging my fingers, finding a D minor chord. The moody note resonated through my core, and I listened to it fade away into the silence of the otherwise empty flat.

Pick up the bow, run the fibres over the strings. The sound was quiet and long, and I pondered for a little. Muscle memory moved my fingers into the position to play my favourite piece. A composition I'd named Moment. I don't know why I named it moment. Still, it fitted. Begin to play quietly. I closed my eyes. Let the feel and voice of the music speak out, flooding with everything I never said. Emotion I hated having.

Moment. It was a reflection of how I played it, depending on the moment. Every time it changed. Sometimes it was happy, springy, sometimes vicious, angry, sometimes careless. Today, Moment seemed sad. Though the chords were a complex mix of both major and minor, I suppose the way I played it was different. Behind my closed eyes, John appeared, and suddenly the music was intensely sad. It was anguish. It was too beautiful to be for something so unbelievably confusing and sad.

I stopped abruptly, opened my eyes to gaze out to the bleak street. I took a deep breath.

"Why did you stop?"

I jumped, panicky. John.

John wasn't supposed to be back yet.

_John wasn't supposed to be back_.

And the worst thing was, I should have heard him come up the stairs.

I quickly bring up my bow to the strings again, and my fingers move back to D minor. I play the note, and quickly make up a tune. It's uneasy and harsh. I can't compose with my thoughts all frazzled like they were.

"Sherlock-," John begins.

No, I don't want to listen. My fingers move again. Auld Lang Syne? Interesting choice- rather unseasonal. Too joyful.

I needed a case. A distraction. I would email Lestrade. Hope nothing boring comes up...

"Sherlock-,"

Too many attempts to get my attention. I repeat Auld Lang Syne. Too joyful.

Warmth, on my back, moving across my shoulders. Warmth. Gentle fingertips, gentle palms. John's hands, against my back.

I stiffen. A warmth creeps up from inside my chest and I can't repel it. I try to continue to play, but my mind is unfocused. The notes are wrong (I've never gotten notes wrong in my entire life). I stop.

"I need to talk to you Sherlock," John says softly from right behind me. I don't reply. I don't say or do anything.

"Sherlock,"

I stare out of the window, to across the street. It's dark and bleak out there. What was I supposed to say? I wasn't sure whether I could string two words together with John's hands on my shoulders.

And yet the desire to know what he wanted to talk about was growing ever stronger, a persistent hornet in my mind. My natural curiosity awakened. I wondered for a moment which emotion was the strongest.

Eventually, my curiosity won; though I still found it hard to talk. I opened my mouth, swallowed painfully.

"What?" My voice is a broken monotone. I clear my throat, slowly lower my bow.

"I need to talk to you,"

"What about?" I sound snappish. I don't mean to be.

"You,"

My throat closed up completely, and suddenly I wished that I had the will to continue playing.

"What about me?"

John took a deep, long breath, the way he would before he says something important. I brace myself.

"I felt the way you reacted to that hug the other day,"

His words bring back painful memories. Suddenly, I feel as though I'm drowning in sensations. Recalling his warmth and his smell and his strength, and then burning up with the pain of it all. I stiffen. Become marble in his hands.

"You leant into me, Sherlock, you hugged me back," his fingers tensed, and resulted in my own tensing, "why?

I needed words. I needed words. Thoughts span around my head dizzyingly.  
"You needed comfort," I said, slowly, testing the words out, "you were upset,"

"Cut the crap Sherlock, you know as well as I, you don't give comfort to anyone,"

I sighed. I could express my thoughts- my true thoughts- to him right now. I could tell him everything. But how could when I had difficultly phrasing the words?

"I-," I began quietly.

John's hands suddenly became rough and urgent on my shoulder, and I found myself being turned around to face him. He had a curious, almost furious expression on his face. I found myself once again in the position of gazing into his eyes. And finding nothing but complexity within them.

"I'm going to do an experiment Sherlock," John said, "and I'm going on what you said to me in that hospital,"

What had I said?

_What had I said?_

I furiously tried to remember my desperate words. The desperate words spoken from a suppressed, desperate heart.

"What experiment?" I whispered, wondering why my heart was hammering so furiously in my chest. Why John had such a profound effect on my sanity.  
There was a pause, and John bit his lip anxiously. The strange look I had been seeing in his eyes for weeks surfacing once again. Experiments were not John's area. They were mine. What experiment did John want to do?

Finally, he spoke. His voice soft, barely there.

"This," he murmured.

And pulled me in.

_A/n: a nice little cliff hanger for you there. Let me know what you think! A review or two would cheer me up after what has been a miserable month. Thanks xxx_


End file.
